


296 santa anita

by ketsole



Category: Victorious (TV)
Genre: Angst, Bade - Freeform, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-12-16
Updated: 2019-12-16
Packaged: 2021-02-26 00:02:14
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,792
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21814123
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ketsole/pseuds/ketsole
Summary: They sit next to each other and chain smoke until their knees are covered in ash and their heads feel like they're full of cotton and cigarettes fall to the pavement.(alternatively; the beginning of Beck&Jade)
Relationships: Beck Oliver/Jade West
Comments: 2
Kudos: 43





	296 santa anita

They take musical theatre together, and that's supposedly where the story starts.

He's faded flannel shirts and whiskey eyes and soft hair. He's apathetic, but she likes that.

She's coffee and bruised knees and perfect winged liner. She's messy, but he likes that.

They don't really know each other.

One day he sits next to her, the next week he's sitting at her lunch table, with people who probably don't really know her.

They don't talk a lot.

*:･ﾟ

"You could get better grades, if you wanted to." He says one day, looking over at her C-.

"You could mind your own business, if you wanted to." She snaps, eyes unfocused.

They don't talk a lot, and he knows she's mostly cold and sometimes cruel, but something in him thinks he should care.

"You could be on Broadway, if you wanted to." He says quietly.

She stops writing but avoids his eyes.

He looks at her hand (chipped black nail-polish, silver rings, blue veins) and thinks that it's close enough that he could hold it.

He's not a child though, and he doesn't trust her, so he doesn't.

*:･ﾟ

He sings quiet.

It's subdued and not at all suited for musical theatre, but he sings quiet and soft and it makes her feel oddly safe.

When he gets to the chorus, he looks directly at her, (no matter how badly she wants to look away from those eyes, she can't) and something in her flutters.

The teacher asks for volunteers to sing the rest of the duet with him, his eyes never leave hers.

She's cold though, and she doesn't know the words, so she just tucks her hands under her armpits and stares at the tear in her jeans.

*:･ﾟ

"Hey,"

"Hey,"

There's a house party in Studio City where the music's loud and the drinks are strong and the sickly sweet smell of weed sticks to everything like glue.

She's wearing a black skin-tight dress and she has a bottle of Smirnoff in her hand, dark eyes only half-open.

He's got on dark-wash jeans and he has a cup of soda in one hand, eyes wide enough.

"I wasn't expecting that." He motions at the vodka, eyebrow raised.

"I was." She takes a swig, saunters past him. He thinks she's just going to walk away, but her hand latches onto his in the dark and suddenly she's pulling him onto the dance floor.

They move around each other, unusual laughs playing on their lips.

This isn't the girl he barely knows, (as if she isn't always an enigma) this girl is someone strange and ethereal covered in a sheen of clear lip gloss, dark glitter on her eyelids, dusting her cheekbones.

This is the boy she barely knows, always hazy and confident and locked into his surroundings, (he can belong anywhere he wants, no questions asked) whiskey eyes observing everything like it's inconsequential.

They dance, she drinks more vodka, he stares at her more before deciding maybe it wouldn't be so bad if he put his hands around her hips-

When gentle hands grab her by the waist and turn her around, they're hip to hip, sharp shoulder blades pressed against his chest (yes, she feels that awful flutter again, and no, it's nothing like the cold) she thinks she doesn't mind, thinks she might feel euphoric.

They're swaying, and then her bottle of vodka is empty.

"I'm gonna-" She's stuttering, and if she were sober she'd be embarrassed. "G'nna get more- Something else to drink..."

There's no bite to her words, he thinks that's what worries him.

"I'm not so sure that's a good idea," He whispers, breath warm against her ear.

Music roars in her ears, bass pumps against her feet, and she feels betrayed by how close he is. Maybe it's the alcohol talking, or maybe it's the pulsing lights. She rips herself out of his arms but he hangs onto her arm, eyebrows knit together.

She knows that look, but alcohol confuses concern with pity.

"We're not friends." She mumbles, pushing past other kids who are drunk or high or happy or sad or not really there. He's left standing there, hands numb at his sides.

Right before he leaves with some friends, he sees her in a corner of the room pressed up against a wall. He recognizes the boy towering over her as a senior from Hollywood Arts, hates the way he grabs her at the waist, tucks his face into her neck to kiss her, wants to go ask if she's ok.

His chest hurts and maybe it's the way his heart is beating too fast or the way it's not beating at all, so he walks out the door.

She's kissing some boy, lips mashed together, teeth clicking, lip gloss smearing, head pounding.

She doesn't feel anything, and maybe she just wishes it was him.

*:･ﾟ

Purple marks stand out harsh against her pale skin, and no matter how much concealer she packs on they won't go away.

Bruise-like circles appear under his eyes, and no matter how much sleep he gets they won't go away.

She shows up to school with a lot of flyaways, no eyeliner, a hoodie that's three sizes too big, and two cups of coffee.

He shows up to school with incomplete homework, motor oil under his nails, and no coffee.

She hands it to him silently, he takes a sip and looks at her over the rim.

He wishes he could thumb the hickeys away, she wishes she could thumb the tired away, they both wish there wasn't space between them.

There should be apologizes, but it's not like they really talk.

*:･ﾟ

Silent exchanges in class,

Shoulders grazing in the parking lot,

Feet bumping under the lunch table,

No, they don't really talk.

*:･ﾟ

He notices she stops coming to school.

First, it's one day a week, then it's two, and then three, then four, then none.

(she cuts class, cuts herself out of her own life)

He tries to ask the redhead she's always hanging out with, but she gets deflective and walks away.

(the Studio City boy doesn't know her name and has a clean sedan they can suck face in)

He tries to talk to the boy with the puppet, but even the puppet can't answer his questions.

(somehow she gets a fake ID and finds that she likes the bite of cigarettes)

She stops showing up, and he can't stop worrying.

(she thinks she might miss the boy with the soft hair)

*:･ﾟ

They have each other's numbers. He doesn't remember how he got hers, she probably doesn't know she has his.

It's a frigid Wednesday night and he's lying in bed, too busy thinking about how much he misses this girl he doesn't really know and how he just wants to know if she's ok.

His phone buzzes from its spot on the windowsill.

_296 Santa Anita._

It's a simple two-word text, but he gets the message all the same.

*:･ﾟ

The address is close enough that he can take his bike, his parents are careless enough that he can leave at 12 pm.

(he rides there under the stars, a midnight moon lighting the way)

It's like a scene out of a movie.

She's sitting on the curb, smoke floating up into the sky, acrid feelings rolling off of her in waves. Her porcelain skin is red and puffy at her eyebrow where silver now adorns her face. Mascara runs down her face, clearly wiped with a hasty hand. She's wearing a tank top and a skirt and it's midnight and she's cold enough that He can see bumps on her skin, can practically feel her shivering. Even in the dark, he sees the bruises and scrapes on her knees, tights torn and muddy.

"You fell." He forgets how to talk.

"I fell a long time ago." She flashes him a bitter smile and it pains him that the first one she directs at him isn't genuine.

He drops his bike on her lawn and lingers close by, hands deep in his pockets, unsure of what to do.

Her eyes are the color of cigarette smoke, and all he can do is wish she didn't look so perfect.

"Can I have one?" He asks.

She nods. Shakes her head. Takes a desperate puff of her cigarette with a trembling hand, motions to the curb.

He sits next to her and she hands him the pack. He pulls one out, sticks it in his mouth, focuses on the pavement under his feet to keep his eyes from wandering to her face.

"Lighter?"

She says nothing by way of reply and just plucks the cigarette out of his lips, lighting it with her own, handing it back once the tip begins to glow red.

He takes a drag and pretends it doesn't make his lungs burn.

"So you don't want me to talk?" He asks softly.

She inhales and moves closer, putting her head on his shoulder. She's being vulnerable, she's being stupid (she thinks of his voice and it makes her feel safe) she should have never texted him-

He laces his fingers through hers.

They sit next to each other and chain smoke until their knees are covered in ash and their heads feel like they're full of cotton and cigarettes fall to the pavement.

"I didn't think you'd ever show up again." He says.

She turns to look at him and he feels like stars are burning above them, (they're sitting in the dark) everything shrouded in the kind of light you should only be able to see in space.

There's that thing, that thing that he doesn't understand; it makes him want to hold her by the hips and pull her close and maybe grab her gently by the jaw and kiss her.

There's that thing, that thing that she doesn't understand; it makes her want to press herself to him and card her fingers through his hair and maybe put a palm against his neck and kiss him.

It's like a scene out of a movie, and they're both the washed-up Hollywood stars.

"Jade," He whispers. "Stand up."

She does, lighter dropping out of her hand and clattering to the ground.

"Beck."

There's his _thing_ and there's her _thing_ and they think it might be ok if it becomes their _thing_ so he grabs her by the hips and she presses herself against him and he takes her gently by the jaw and she lays her palm against his neck and when their lips touch-

He expects coffee, cigarettes, crushed hearts.

She expects fennel, flannels, fresh rain.

They melt into each other, and everything becomes indistinguishable.

**Author's Note:**

> send prompts!


End file.
